Bits and Pieces
by The Fool's Hope
Summary: Various short one-shot thingies inspired by a variety of sources. Will be updated whenever another short one-shot thingy inspiration hits me. Will probably feature many crossovers and completely AU-ish tidbits. Probably very rarely serious ;D
1. The Train Job

**Prompt:** (From LiveJournal "Writer's Block" questions.) "Jam a bunch of people together in a tight space like a bus or the subway and something crazy is bound to happen. What's the most memorable thing you've seen on mass transit?"

_A/N: I should point out now that all these tidbits are highly unlikely and/or completely and utterly ridiculous. _

* * *

"Do you ever suppose, Watson, that Dante got it wrong?"

"I beg your pardon, Holmes?"

"It's just that I can't help but feel that Hell has only one circle, and this is it."

I often try to look on the bright side of any circumstance I find myself in, but at the moment I confess I was inclined to agree with him. We were, shall we say, less than comfortable.

We were, the pair of us, squeezed into a seemingly abnormally small train compartment with Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson, neither of whom would allow us to leave them behind, in addition to two police constables, who Gregson had insisted accompany us in our attempt to apprehend a vicious murderer, and our somewhat distressed client, Mr. McCleese, who was similarly disinclined to remain behind, though so far he had proved to be of very little help in any situation ranging from fistfights to pouring tea. Gregson and McCleese were arguing, the two constables, who did not have the best of friendships, were trying to sit as far from each other as possible, and Lestrade had not stopped coughing for twenty minutes straight. He'd caught a frightful cold the other night and I'd advised him to remain in bed for the day, but word of our criminal's probable escape by train had reached him, and he was not the least bit inclined to allow Gregson to steal all the glory. Consequently, the rest of us were leaning every which way in an intricate dance to find uninfected air to breathe.

"Think of the case, Holmes," I muttered, in an effort to cheer him up. "This will all be over soon enough, thanks to your sound bit of deduction--I never would have dreamed of checking the chimney, myself."

"Well, of course you wouldn't have, Watson. No fault of yours, my dear fellow; you merely lack the proper training in these matters. Having trained myself, I found it to be quite a simple matter."

I did my best to hide my annoyance. Holmes' habit of making even the most truly difficult cases seem commonplace to him and him alone could be extremely trying. Upon glancing back at him, however, I could tell that I had pleased him by the barest hint of a smile flitting across his face. I settled back, assured that I had managed to lift his spirits at least a little. Hopefully it would make the journey more pleasant for all of us.

I would be the first to confess that I too was more than ready to be off the train.

Our objective was to apprehend the man who murdered McCleese's father-in-law. Holmes had reason to believe that he would be boarding this very train. When we reached a certain statioin we would leave the compartment and begin walking up and down the train, remaining on the lookout for the killer. The problem was that we had no way of knowing when the man would leave the train, and it was possible that he would board from several different stations. Consequently, we had decided that our best bet was to apprehend him on the train itself.

Suddnely my friend stiffened beside me, seizing my wrist. I turned to him in surprise and he pointed, wordlessly. Outside the compartment, holding a newspaper close to his face, our criminal was walking past.

"I thought the first possible station he could board from was _next,_" I whispered, careful to keep McCleese from hearing.

"Apparently I was misinformed, Watson," Holmes whispered back. "But if we move quickly--"

He was cut short, however, when McCleese caught sight of the killer.

There are several courses of action one may take when one spots a dangerous criminal who you are attempting to apprehend. Jumping up and shouting, in an extremely high-pitched voice, "There he is!" is most certainly, according to Holmes, the very worst.

The criminal dropped his paper and bolted. Lestrade and Gregson were on their feet in seconds, and both charged for the door of the compartment, only to become wedged in as each tried to exit before the other. Holmes said a word I shall not reproduce and, apparently discarding all hopes of extracting the policemen, simply clambered over them and took off down the train after our killer. After disentangling Lestrade and Gregson I raced after Holmes, the four policemen close at my heels.

I found Holmes sitting with his knee in the killer's back, struggling to keep him on the ground. Lestrade hurried up with handcuffs at the ready. "Well done, Mr. Holmes," he exclaimed, pulling the prisoner to his feet. "Though I notice he got on a bit earlier than you said he would. None of us is perfect though. And here comes Mr. McCleese himself. Yes, sir, we have the fellow." He broke off, dissolving into another fit of coughing.

McCleese swelled like a balloon and marched up to the killer, shaking his finger at him. "And that'll teach you, sir! You thought you could get away with stealing from me, did you? Oh no! As you see, my jewels are safe, and this is what you get for going after them!"

"Do not forget, sir, that this man also murdered your father-in-law," I could not help but point out sternly.

McCleese barely glanced in my direction. "And that too, I suppose."

I rolled my eyes and turned to Holmes. "All's well that ends well, anyhow, old fellow," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Another case solved."

Holmes' expression of annoyance as he looked at the two detectives subsided as he turned to me, nodding. "I suppose it was a satisfactory conclusion. However, this is the last time I try to combine the capture of a criminal and public transportation."

"Are you absolutely certain, Holmes? I thought you handled that quite well. Perhpas you should make it a habit to conclude all cases on trains."

"Very funny, Watson."

"Sorry, Holmes." I hid my grin as we headed back down the train.

* * *

_A/N: If you don't know what one of those old train compartments looks like, see if you can find a picture. It adds to the scene of the Inspectors becoming entangled :)_


	2. Somewhat Disgruntled

**Prompt:** Lots of news on the two upcoming films, and LiveJournal's Writer's Block question--"If your life was made into a movie, what type of movie would you want it to be? Who would you choose to play yourself? Who would play the important people in your life?"**  
**

_A/N: This is the part where it starts getting ridiculous ;) _

_  
__Personally, I'm still not sure what to think about these films--I've decided not to judge until I've seen them.  
...All right, I'm judging a LITTLE. But the point is, I then started to think about what the characters themselves would think of the casting. _

* * *

"Sacha Baron Cohen?"

I sighed. "Holmes, you've spoken of nothing else for days. I'm as sorry as you are, but there's nothing we can do."

Despite my protests he continued to pace, his eyes flashing. "Then what, Watson, what? I am to sit back and allow this man to make a mockery of myself and my profession? It was bad enough with that Downey Jr. fellow--a good enough actor, perhaps, but "all action" indeed. But this is an obvious parody, a deliberate attempt to drag my name through the mud!" He slammed his fist into his palm. "If only that Rathbone chap were still around..."

"Absolutely not," I countered. "Nigel Bruce did a horrific portrayal of myself--from the way he acted, every audience must have seen me as some sort of bumbling oaf. With this Baron Cohen film, at least the humiliation will be spread over the two of us."

He smirked. "It is true, he is not the one I would have chosen to portray your character to the masses, my dear Watson. But _surely_ you agree that Rathbone had the right idea?"

"I suppose he did, Holmes. But no one will get it exactly right, you know. It just wouldn't be interesting enough. If it was up to you, it would be a purely informational film on the science of deduction."

"Quite right," was his indignant reply, "and that is as it _should_ be. However, they seem bent upon making me out to be some sort of action hero, or a comic laughing stock."

I shook my head. "Holmes, nothing for entertainment purposes could be as scientific and informational as you would like. And before you say that your cases should not be used for entertainment purposes, you must realize that very few people would have any interest in such a film. This is purely appealing to those who wish to see your work in a manner that they understand."

"Still, that is no excuse for casting Sacha Baron Cohen--"

"I know, Holmes. And Will Farrell, no less." I snorted.

"I wonder who will see us as we really are after this?"

"We still have a large assortment of real fans, Holmes, never fear." I thought back to the vast assortment of fanfiction that had been, and was still being, written. "I don't doubt that some of them are rather miffed at this as well. Some of them are probably writing sarcastic fanfiction about it as we speak."

Holmes' mood did not lighten. "It is a grim predicament, Watson. Our names have been dragged through the mud time and again--yours more than mine, I suppose," he aknowledged to my raised eyebrows and silent mention of Nigel Bruce. His eyes took on an almost wistful sheen. "If only we had..."

I nodded in mutual regret. "Jeremy Brett."

"What a man," said Holmes, genuine admiration shining in his eyes. "What a remarkably talented man! If there was ever a man that understood my complexities, it was he."

"Not to mention his determination," I added.

"David Burke and Edward Hardwicke were magnificent in their roles, too," Holmes noted, still caught up in his remembrance. "If only their talent could be reflected in today's film portrayals! but sadly, it seems, we are left with the parodies and the action heroes."

"Well, my dear fellow, you may take comfort that no matter who else butchers your character, there was once Jeremy Brett," I said with a smile. "And I believe he shall remain the definitive Holmes of the screen in the minds of the true fans for many years to come."

He nodded, his eyes finally losing their indignant flame, and lit his pipe. "Let us hope so, my dear Watson," he said solemnly. "For both our sakes."


	3. Trying days

**Prompt: **A ridiculously stressful and annoyance-filled day.

_A/N: SUPERFLUFFY!

* * *

_

_I should point out that I do not mean any offense to real hypochondriacs with the character of Mrs. Hardwicke. I am aware that not all hypochondriacs behave as she does, however, there are some that do, and she's just one of them.  
I also do not mean to imply that Edward Hardwicke is a hypochondriac, nor his wife/mother. His name was handy, is all.  
_  
"Yes, Mrs. Hardwicke, I completely understand," I said mechanically, patience wearing thin. The woman was a hypochondriac, without question, and despite my attempts to avoid her she continued marching into my consulting room whenever the fancy took her and demanded an opinion on her latest assortment of symptoms. "But there really is nothing wrong with you. You are the picture of health. Now if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to..."

Her shrill voice carried after me as I lead her to the door and ushered her through it. The moment the reassuring solidity of the door was safely between myself and that infuriating woman, I sank back against the wall and sighed. I could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on, and the day wasn't half over yet. I knew I had a mother with her young twin boys coming by later, and I dreaded the thought of having to control two children while at the same time ensuring their health. And their mother, while a charming woman, was prone to worry more than she ought about them. There was just too much to concentrate on..

I had just made it back behind my desk when the maid knocked tentatively on the door, saying that there was a man here to see me. I told her to show him in, and found myself faced with one of the largest men I have ever seen. It seemed he had been careless with a knife and, as he explained with a sheepish grin, cut himself rather badly across the arm. I failed to see how even the clumsiest of people could cut himself across his arm like that, and suspected that he was hiding a less innocent cause. I decided not to comment; this was not one of Holmes' little problems, and if the man had a gash across his arm for whatever reason it was no business of mine, though I couldn't help being curious.

The wound was easy to treat, certainly, and I had it cleaned and wrapped within the hour. That hour, however, was one of the most tedious of my entire life. The man, who introduced himself as Mr. Melville, may have been inclined to keep quiet about the cause of his wound, but he was not the least bit inclined to keep quiet about anything else. He had an opinion on everything, from politics to how children were being raised these days, up to and including the decour in my consulting room. At first I tried making polite conversation with him, but when that proved to be a lost cause I simply tuned him out, nodding unwavering agreement and occasionally muttering "absolutely," and "quite true," while forcing myself not to rush the job for the sole purpose of getting him out of my presence any faster.

By the time he left, still explaining his views on whichever topic he was speaking about now, Mrs. Norwood had arrived with her children, and I was forced to give my full attention to the boys, who were in a particularly mischivous mood. It was all I could do to keep them from wreaking havoc in my office, while explaining all the while to their mother the steps she should be taking to prevent her children from taking ill (if only to keep them healthy so as to avoid any more visits to me than necessary). Two hours and a broken picture frame later, I was ready to collapse. I fervently wished that Mary was not visiting Mrs. Forrester; her sweet nature and attentiveness always let her know when I was feeling overworked, as I did now, and she always had a kind word or gesture for me. Small things, but in their absence I felt I sorely needed them.

The rest of my day progressed in a similar vein; it had begun to drizzle slightly and no matter how I tried I could not get a cab to stop for me when going out to make several house calls, though I was almost run down twice by occupied ones. It was not far to walk, but even so by the time I returned to my office at the end of the day I was decidedly damp. Not wanting to catch cold I was about to change into fresh clothes when Mrs. Hardwicke sauntered into my office yet again.

"Doctor Watson," she said, in her particular shrill voice, "I have just recently become aware of some more symptoms--I immediately came to you, so that you can examine them."

I rubbed my temples wearily. "Mrs. Hardwicke, my hours are clearly displayed on the door. I cannot see you right now, but I am sure that whatever symptoms you may have are not serious."

She sniffed, and looked offended. "I do not appreciate being brushed aside like this, Doctor," she proclaimed haughtily. "You are a physician, are you not? You are supposed to _treat_ people."

"Yes, Mrs. Hardwicke," I said, my patience finally snapping. "People who are sick! You are not sick."

"I beg your pardon, Doctor, but I have come to you because I believe I am showing signs of--"

"Mrs. Hardwicke, I can assure you that you are not showing signs of any sort of life-threatening disease! Now, whatever it is you are suffering from will have to wait until tomorrow, because I am simply not seeing patients at this hour."

The infuriating woman assumed her most disdainful look. "Doctor, I must insist that you see me _now_. I would have _thought_ that as a medical man you would know the severity of the consequences of leaving an illness untreated. But I shall have you know that I will not leave this room until you have examined my symptoms."

I decided then that I had had enough. "Very well, Mrs. Hardwicke," I said, grabbing my coat off the back of my chair. "You may stay here as long as you like. _I,_ on the other hand, am going out. Good evening." I brushed past her on my way out the door, and I could hear her shrill complaints following me for some ways down the street. It was possible that she would treat this as an unforgivable insult and find another doctor to harass, but unfortunately this was not likely; the moment she became aware of another 'symptom' she would forget all else and come rushing back.

I pulled my coat tighter around me against the rain. I hadn't even thought to grab an umberella, so desperate had I been to remove myself from that office, that person. And now I was stuck out in the rain. My mind ran grimly over the events of the day, and I found myself wishing bitterly that I had never studied medicine in the first place, although I knew in my heart that there was no other option for me. Some things in life, I had learned, are certainties, constants. One such constant was my profession; I had always known I was going to be a doctor.

And without even thinking about where I was going, I found myself on Baker Street. The rain was coming down quite a bit harder now, and I was grateful that I had kept the keys to my old lodgings.

Holmes was standing by the window, violin in hand. He looked up as I entered, and I saw his penetrating gaze taking in my wet clothing and heavy shoulders as I sank down into my customary chair. "Rough day, Watson?" he asked, his steely eyes softening slightly.

"No wonder you're a detective," I grumbled, rubbing my temples.

My friend reached for the teapot, which Mrs. Hudson had evidently just brought up, and poured a cup, which I accepted gratefully. He said nothing else, but instead raised his violin and began playing a soft melody, low and soothing. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes as I allowed the music to wash over me. Even with eyes closed I could see clearly in my mind my friend standing by the window, his dark form swaying gently with the music, the fire casting a comforting glow over the scene. I felt myself finally beginning to relax. Some things in life were constants, as dependable as the sun rising with each new day. And no matter what else happened in life, there would always be a place in my mind and heart with a cozy fire, soft music, and as true a friendship as ever a man could hope for.


	4. Completely Ridiculous!

**Prompt: **LiveJournal Writer's Block prompt--"Have you ever crushed on your best friend? Did you keep it secret, were there problems, or did it blossom into something more?"

_A/N: A little explanation is needed here, methinks. I don't really have a position on slash. I personally don't much care for it for the most part, but I have found some exceptions to the general rule. However, I never write slash; not only am I just not interested, I am no good at it.  
So, essentially, when I turned to the LiveJournal Writer's Block prompt and saw that it was about best friends crushing on each other, and I write for not one but two fandoms which feature a pair of best friends who are often found in slash fics, I felt like the universe was pretty much forcing me to write slash. But I decided to do something completely different, just to spite the universe. _

_So if you have a strong aversion to slash, feel free to read the chapter. Slash is mentioned, but never written.  
_

_This is a crossover with _Good Omens,_ by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I tried to write it in a way that would make sense whether or not you've read Good Omens. This is also quite probably the most bizarre fic I've ever written.  
_

_

* * *

_

"What the devil?" Holmes exclaimed, moments before he hit the floor. Watson appeared a split second later. Holmes pulled him to his feet, looking around warily. "What just happened?"

"I don't know," Watson replied, also looking around in confusion. "We were just sitting there, and then... we appeared in this room."

"That's entirely irrational. There must be a logical explanation--some sort of shared hallucination, perhaps?"

"Well, I suppose it's possible, Holmes, but what on earth could trigger it?"

They were interrupted by a popping noise--"Bugger and blast!"--and a dark-haired man in a black designer suit, black trench coat and sunglasses landed heavily on the floor next to them. A moment later a blonde man in a white shirt and light overcoat dropped to the floor beside him. Holmes and Watson shared an incredulous glance, then looked back at the newcomers, who were getting to their feet.

"Dear me," said the blonde, looking around with distaste. "There seems to have been some sort of... misunderstanding..."

"Don't be stupid, angel," said the dark one shortly. "Just have a look around." He spotted Holmes and Watson. "Oh, you two got pulled in too?" he asked disinterestedly, as though he was not at all surprised. "Figures. Well, at least we're not the only fandom being targeted."

"Excuse me," said Watson finally, "But who exactly are you?"

The dark haired man stuck out a hand. "The name's Crowley," he said, "Anthony Crowley. And this is my... er, my... well... er." Crowley went from sounding suave and sophisticated to confused and a bit embarassed in a matter of seconds.

"His friend, I suppose you could say," said the blonde. "Although I'm not quite sure if that's allowed, you know; perhaps "counterpart" is a better word. My name's Aziraphale, very pleased to meet you..."

"I'm Doctor Watson, and this is my friend and colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Watson finally, after seeing that Holmes was too busy examining the blank room to respond.

"Oh, excellent!" said Aziraphale happily. "It's good to see some classics appearing in her assortment of fandoms. For a while there I thought she was never going to leave _Artemis Fowl_, but I'm afraid poor Julius' death rather embittered her towards that series. Strange, how often her favorite characters seem to meet untimely ends. That's the way of the world, I fear."

"You seem to have a firmer grasp of the situation than we do, sir," said Holmes, leaving his study of the room to join them. "Pray tell us, what exactly is going on?"

"Well, you see, it's a bit complicated, but it appears we've been thrust into a crossover of some sort. There's this fangirl, goes by the name of 'The Fool's Hope,' and she must have been given a prompt of some sort that called for us to appear here--although I can't imagine why we're just sitting here. Usually we're put into a story of some kind--"

"Look up, angel," said Crowley grimly. "This isn't a crossover."

"Look up? Whatever do you--Oh dear."

The four of them stared upwards. High over their heads, where the ceiling should be, were the words:

**Have you ever crushed on your closest friend?  
Did you keep it secret, were there problems, or did it blossom into something more?  
**  
"You see?" said Crowley.

"I'm afraid so."

"I don't," said Watson, feeling more confused by the second.

"Neither do I," said Holmes. "If you gentlemen would care to explain--?"

"Well, you see, it's like this," Aziraphale said, dithering slightly (which he had gotten quite good at ever since that little incident with the apocalypse). "This particular fangirl sometimes uses these "Writer's Block" prompts from her "LiveJournal," and just writes whatever they inspire for her fandoms."

"But this prompt--well, it's literally setting her up for slash," said Crowley bitterly.

Holmes and Watson shared a knowing look. "Your fandom too?" Watson asked sympathetically.

"Like you wouldn't believe," said Crowley.

"So as you can see, this prompt can only lead to her writing a slash fic," Aziraphale continued. "And the four of us have ended up here because she has _two_ fandoms in which a pair of closest friends is often targeted for slash."

"We are _not_ friends, Aziraphale," Crowley declared forcefully. "We are just two unlucky beings who have... known each other a long time."

"Yes, yes, whatever you say, dear boy," said Aziraphale in the patient tone of one who has had to deal with the same infuriating person for far too long. "But the point is--The fact that she uses these prompts, and the fact that she writes for these fandoms, means that from _this_ prompt, a slash fic is inevitable; so inevitable that we, the obvious characters, have been pushed prematurely into an empty space, waiting for a story to fill it, as it must. The only problem is--"

"This particular author doesn't write slash," said Crowley shortly.

"Exactly."

"Then why the deuce have we been put here at all?" Holmes exclaimed impatiently. "If she doesn't write slash, she's clearly not going to use the prompt."

"And we shouldn't be involved in a fanfiction in the first place," Watson added.

"You know, that's a good point," said Crowley. "How _can_ we be thrust prematurely into a situation when it's a given that no situation is going to arise?"

Aziraphale suddenly found himself under three curious and quite focused gazes.

"Er... It's all a bit ineffable, I'm afraid," he ventured.

Crowley rolled his eyes, which is unfortunately much less effective behind dark sunglasses. "Come off it, angel. That's just what you say whenever you don't know the answer to something."

Aziraphale's cheeks reddened slightly. "Well, that doesn't make it any less ineffable."

"Only ineffable to _you._ Not _universally _ineffable. There's a difference."

"It's not as though _you_ knew the answer either, might I remind you!"

Holmes had been brooding throughout this exchange. "Logic is a wonderful thing at times like this," he said finally.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Is it, now? You're telling this to two of the most illogical beings ever created, let me tell you."

Holmes shrugged. "Be that as it may, there are certain facts that cannot be disputed. We have appeared, and are interacting. That speaks of a story. The prompt she was meant to use is the reason we are here interacting. Our conversation could be considered a story, and since this situation is far too fantastic to be a result of anything else, the only conclusion is that she is using the prompt."

"Oh, yes, that sounds quite reasonable," said Crowley with scathing sarcasm. "The only flaw in your reasoning is that we all appear to be fully dressed."

"Really, Crowley!"

"Don't 'really Crowley' me, Aziraphale, you said yourself that the only outcome was slash--"

"Ah, but that is not necessarily so," said Holmes with a knowing smile. "She is using the prompt, but in a way that was _not_ expected."

Realization dawned behind Watson's eyes. "I think I see what you're saying, Holmes! You mean--"

"Precisely. She is using us to poke fun at what would seem the obvious outcome of this rather unfortunate prompt."

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "This very conversation," he blurted.

Crowley stared. "So she _did _put us all here? Just so we would talk about the prompt?"

"It appears to be the case."

"_Right." _Crowley stood and glared upwards (and even through sunglasses, Crowley's glare was a force to be reckoned with.) "Here, you! I don't care how bored you are, I don't _care_ that you don't have another prompt! You can bloody well put us back in our respective universes, because I've had enough!"

"Come now, dear boy, there is such a thing as asking politely--Excuse me?" Aziraphale called up. "If you wouldn't mind, there really are some things I should be getting back to... I think that's true for all of us, in fact..."

"Bugger your politeness--Just put us back, or you'll be called out of the bath by telemarketers every day for a month! I'm not messing around," he said in response to Aziraphale's cringe. "You have to be firm with these people." He glared upwards again. "And I'll see to it that they mispronounce your name!"

_A/N: *sigh* I guess you're probably right. It's gone on long enough._

"Why is it--now are we dreaming or something?"

"No, it's just an author's note, she always does them in italics. So you'll end this now?"

_A/N: No worries. Just a bit more, to wrap it up and stuff. You know how it is._

"Oh, certainly," said Aziraphale. He turned to Holmes and Watson. "Well, it's been a pleasure meeting you gentlemen," he said, smiling and extending a hand. "I daresay any future crossovers are unlikely, but I suppose it's _possible_ we'll be seeing each other again."

"Let's hope not," Crowley grumbled. "I've had quite enough of all this--being hauled to various universes without so much as a "beg pardon, but I'm about to screw with your life for a while, do you mind?" Let's just get out of here." He thumped the wall impatiently. "What's taking so long?"

_A/N: Just adding closure. I can't just break off a fic without warning, you know. Gimme a couple more lines._

"Well, hurry it up." He put a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder and turned to Holmes and Watson. "Nice meeting you," he said. Something seemed to occur to him suddenly, and he grinned at Aziraphale. "See, I _told_ you it wasn't ineffable!" he exclaimed, and they both vanished.

Watson stared at where they had been for a couple seconds. "What strange people," he said finally, for the sake of saying anything at all.

Holmes nodded. "In the words of Shakespeare, 'there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' Though I doubt even he dreamt of anything quite so extraordinary." He smiled suddenly. "It's been a remarkable experience though, hasn't it, old fellow?"

"It certainly has, Holmes," Watson agreed. "But I sincerely hope her next prompt is a better one."

And then they too vanished.

_A/N: ...Well, that was weird. _


	5. Two BitterFics for the Price of One!

**Prompt: **Learning that Moriarty would come to have a large part to play in the same film.

_A/N: I am not actually as bitter about these films as I sound. But they had been annoying me when I wrote these. And anyway, Moriarty's died enough._

* * *

"You did not seriously think you could get away with this, did you, Frankenstein?" asked Holmes cooly, as Watson leveled his pistol at the man's heart. "Your ideas are certainly... intriguing, I confess, but grave robbing is frowned upon in these parts. And when I got wind of your plan to use your creation to further crime in this city, I decided it was high time someone put a stop to it."

"You're too late," said the Doctor, grinning madly. "You cannot stop us now."

Watson's instincts prodded him sharply, and his eyes narrowed, his hand growing slick with a sudden sweat around the firearm.

"I believe we already have," said Holmes, as calmly as ever. "The police are on their way, and I'm afraid they do not look kindly on this sort of thing."

"Oh no, Holmes," said Frankenstein, shaking his head. "No, I'm afraid you're mistaken. You cannot stop us. Even as we speak, your doom approaches. You may be clever, but there are those cleverer than you."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, outwardly emotionless as always, though he was sligltly unnerved at this statement. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Oh, gladly," said the Doctor, still grinning. "Though I feel it rather unnecessary--I don't believe you can have forgotten him."

Watson felt a chill envelope his body, and he stared at his friend, as though hoping for validation that all that Frankenstein had implied was impossible--surely, surely it was impossible...

Holmes had gone very white. "The brain..." he breathed, as though afraid speaking it aloud would make it come true.

"Oh yes, Holmes. The brain." Frankenstein backed up to the door behind him and threw it open. "Gentlemen, I believe you have met before."

The body was different, of course, but it was him. Holmes had never forgotten the cold hatred in those eyes.

"Good evening, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Professor James Moriarty.

Outside, lightning cracked across the sky. Heavy clouds rolled in, bringing with them a torrential downpour.

It was a dark and stormy night.

* * *

~~~~~~~~~  
AND ANOTHER!  
~~~~~~~~~

**Prompt: **Learning who Holmes' love interest was going to be played by in the coming RDJ film, and being in a bitter mood.

* * *

"Did you really think you could escape me, Moriarty?" Holmes shouted across the rooftop through the dark and stormy night. "I said I would find you--I swore it. You have wronged the best woman who has ever lived, and I'll see you hang for it!"

"My, my," sneered the professor. "It seems Sherlock Holmes has finally fallen in love. How romantic."

Holmes said nothing, but glared through the rain, gun still trained on his nemesis.

Moriarty's brow furrowed. "Wait a minute--you mean you actually _are_ in love with her?" he said incredulously. He looked over at Watson. "He isn't, is he?"

Watson shrugged ruefully. "We don't know why either. It's just another case of misinterpreting the canon, I suppose."

"Oh dear," sighed the professor, shaking his head. "It just gets worse and worse, doesn't it?"

"Tell me about it," said Holmes, glaring. "Being forced into an ambiguous relationship with someone is bad enough, but sequels?"

"Ah yes, the sequels. Unfortunate, that." Moriarty grimaced. "You would think there is only so much that can happen--one of us wins, one of us loses. It can't just drag on like this."

"Tell that to the director," grumbled Watson, rolling his eyes. "One more midnight chase across soggy rooftops..."

"Ah, well. Nothing we can do, I suppose." Moriarty shrugged, then resumed his previous pose, putting his evil grin back on. The dramatic music reached a crecendo. "You cannot take me, Holmes!" he said, in his Evil Maniac voice. "Try as you might, I will always outwit you!"

"Not this time!" shouted Holmes, resuming his Dashing Hero pose. "You cannot get away. Surrender now!"

"I shall never surrender!"

"You would do well to listen to me, Moriarty! It will be the better for you to give in!"

"No no no, you misunderstand," Moriarty pointed out. "I can't surrender. The sequels are depending on me to still be at large, remember?"

"Oh, of course," Holmes groaned. "And that's why I can't resolve this whole blasted question of whether or not my love interest will spurn me or if we'll ride off into the sunset together. Confound it!" He turned away, waving a hand absently at the professor. "Oh, all right, bugger off."

"I suppose I'll see you in the sequel," said Moriarty, preparing to Disappear Dramatically into the Fog.

"Until then," said Watson.

"Very well." Moriarty swished his cloak, then Disappeared Dramatically into the Fog.

Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is absurd. The whole thing is absurd. Our names are being dragged through the mud. What will everyone think of us now? The action hero, his sidekick, his love interest, his nemesis?"

"Oh, cheer up, Holmes," said Watson, putting a companionable hand on Holmes' shoulder. "We still have some true followers, and I don't doubt that they're as angry as you are. The sarcastic fanfiction has been pouring in."

They clambered down off the rooftop, now wishing they had been allowed to chase their nemesis in drier weather, while Moriarty slunk around London waiting for the sequel to come around.

Below them, a man named Arthur Conan Doyle spun like a top in his grave.


	6. Snowed In

**Prompt: **Written for Pebbles66, who wanted more fic on a weather-ful day :)

* * *

The world was shrouded in snow and ice.

I sat in my customary armchair, happily engrossed in a novel, with a cup of tea at my elbow, happy to simply sit and watch the snow continue to fall. There were no medical emergencies being brought to my attention, and though I continued to take a few patients to supplement my income, I had wired them all in advance to let them know I would meet with them at the next possible opportunity, as the weather today simply did not allow for travel.

I was certainly not alone in this opinion. The streets were deserted; we had found ourselves in the midst of a massive ice storm, and since then the snow had not stopped falling, making for treacherous footing indeed.

Perfectly happy to sit in the warmth without work to occupy my mind, I settled back into the peaceful--

**BANG.**

I settled back into the peaceful--

**BANG.**

I settled back into the--

**BANG.**

_I settled back--_

**BANG.**

I slammed my book closed. "Holmes!"

He turned from his perch on the back of the sofa and turned an infuriatingly calm gaze on me. "Yes, Watson?"

"Do you suppose there might be a better time and place for target practice?"

"On the contrary, Watson, I can think of no better time. Now, when there is absolutely nothing else to do in this infernal city. As for the place, well, I'm not exactly able to go anywhere else, am I?"

I rolled my eyes internally at his childishly bitter attitude. "Holmes, I realize you're bored. But you can't seriously expect any clients to come to you in this weather."

"If there was a pressing enough matter, a little snow would not stop them."

I looked out the window at what one of the most observant men in England deemed 'a little snow.' "Holmes, this is the worst snowstorm we've seen for years. The clients will be returning once the weather lightens up, but for the moment, they are doing the sensible thing and staying inside. However, that is no call for constant indoor target practice!"

"And what would you like me to do, Watson?" he exclaimed, leaping from the sofa in one swift movement. "Until but a couple days ago there was a constant stream of cases, but my mind has been assaulted by sudden stagnation, all because of this accursed _weather_."

I let out an exasperated sigh. "Please, Holmes, just try to find something else to occupy your mind. The constant stream of gunfire is rather trying."

"I do apologize, Watson."

"Thank you." Leaning back comfortably, I reopened my book and settled back into the--

**BANG.**

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. My appreciation for the weather was fading rapidly.


	7. Whiskers

**Prompt: Watching the new trailer for the movie.**

_A/N: I have to say, even though I object strongly to the Irene Adler/RDJ constantly shirtless/action thriller theme, I love love love Jude Law's Watson. I fully intend to see the movie just for that. _

_Anyway, I am quite bothered by lots of things in the movies (as stated above) but there is one, very petty, point that for some reason I can't let go of...  
_

* * *

Holmes opened the door to the sitting room with a scowl. "Whatever it is, Lestrade, it had better be--good heavens, man, what on earth happened to you?"

Lestrade blushed behind his beard and glared up at Holmes defiantly. "Nothing _happened_ to me, Mr. Holmes. Anyhow, I can see that you're deeply immersed in an extremely difficult case of your own, which is apparently getting nowhere, so I shall have to come back later."

Holmes snorted. "Your conclusion is quite in character, Lestrade." He opened the door and allowed the inspector inside. "I have not had a case in days, and certainly nothing so difficult that it was "getting nowhere." What exactly made you think it?"

"Your face, man," Lestrade exclaimed. "The only times your face is not immaculately clean-shaven is when you're stumped, which has happened a few more times than you would care to admit, I think. But I've never seen a growth like that on you before. I assumed it must be an impossible problem. Unless it's a disguise?"

"Nothing so romantic, Lestrade, but never you mind. However, you are hardly in a position to comment on the facial hair of others now, are you?"

Lestrade stroked the beard which had successfully invaded his countenance. "Well, I don't see why not," he said a trifle defensively. "I don't recall it saying anywhere that I am always clean shaven."

"Yes, but the simple fact of the matter is that you _are_ always clean shaven, Lestrade. Certainly I have seen you working all hours with stubble upon your chin, but the likes of this I have never before encountered."

"My hair grows unreasonably fast," sighed the inspector. "And to tell you the truth, Mr. Holmes, I... well, the only reason I have this blasted beard is that I cannot for the life of me find my razor."

Holmes leaned forward with sudden interest. "Explain."

Lestrade was slightly unnerved by the sudden intensity of his gaze, but he did not show it. "Well, about two weeks ago I misplaced my first razor, it seems," he explained. "I purchased a new one the next day, but before I'd a chance to use it, the blasted thing disappeared! I'm not a tidy man, Mr. Holmes, but I can usually keep track of my things. And the next two razors I purchased have both disappeared as well... but I can't imagine that anyone would be stealing them!"

"I can," said Holmes darkly. "I had not thought it possible until now, but someone, it seems, has been making off with them."

"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

"I mean, Lestrade, that this is not the only documented incident."

A light of understanding dawned in Lestrade's eyes. "Mr. Holmes, do you mean to say that the reason for your facial hair is that..."

"Yes, Lestrade," Holmes growled, glaring at his reflection in the window. "My razors have gone missing as well."

"Well then," Lestrade snapped, suddenly businesslike. "There must be a pattern here somewhere. As far as we know, we are the only two who have suffered this intrusion?"

"Thus far, that does seem to be the case."

"Then there must be a common tie somewhere. Someone we both have contact with regularly, and who is apparently very well groomed--"

"Good morning, gentlemen," called a voice from the staircase. Both men sat up straight and, the light of understanding dawning in their eyes, turned to face Watson and his immaculately trimmed moustache.

* * *

_A/N: It says, in the text, that Holmes is clean shaven! He just is! I mean, it also says that he didn't often end up in bedrooms with scantily clad women, or that he wasn't constantly fighting people with his shirt off, etc, but those I'd given up on avoiding long ago. I don't believe it ever says that Lestrade is clean shaven, but I've never seen him otherwise. Also, it describes him as looking slightly like a rat, and although rats are furry, it sort of detracts from the image a bit, I think. Anyway, that was silly. I'm done now._


	8. BatHolmes

**Prompt: **An LJ comment concerning Watson's opinion of Batman's costume - specifically Holmes wearing Batman's costume. The result:

_A/N: I just... I don't even..._

_

* * *

_

"Well, Watson, how do I look?"

"Absolutely not, Holmes! Take that off this instant!"

"I admit the cloak may be a bit much, but-"

"The whole thing is a bit much, Holmes! And-is that a deerstalker on your chest?"

"It's my personal logo. And I've already instructed Lestrade, in the event of a crime, to project the image of the deerstalker onto-"

"This has gone too far! I don't care how successful Mr. Wayne is with his methods, you were doing perfectly well before you heard of them! I will have nothing to do with this nonsense!"

"Why Watson, I always thought you enjoyed dramatic flair more than I."

"Holmes, if you continue down this path of insanity, I shall... I shall tell your brother."

"...you wouldn't."

"I would."

"...can we at least keep the Holmesmobile?"

"...I suppose... maybe for emergencies only."

"Excellent!"

"And we're not painting on a deerstalker."

"Oh."


End file.
